


you look so beautiful to me now when you're so sad

by simplerplease



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Baggage, First Meetings, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Suicide Attempt, annoyances to lovers, background benverly and kaspbrough, because richie is richie and stanley is ''rambunctious'', in kinda pervert-y way but hey they're both a mess, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:08:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21959380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplerplease/pseuds/simplerplease
Summary: “... because the elevator was too crowded and I had to go on foot and there were no fucking numbers on the floors and I’ve lost fucking count andgotlost...” he pushes the door into the room, still recording an audio, “...fucking twice—oh.”His phone buzzes as the message gets sent to Mike. Richie blinks. It’s not Eddie in the room.
Relationships: Richie Tozier/Stanley Uris
Comments: 8
Kudos: 131





	you look so beautiful to me now when you're so sad

**Author's Note:**

> written for my giftee morgan as a part of stozier secret santa exchange. it may not be as cute and fluffy as you wanted but hope you enjoy reading it anyway. happy christmas!

Wednesday is the first day Richie goes to visit Eddie alone. 

It was three days ago when Bill was complaining casually about having to buy all his physics homework because he doesn’t understand shit and Bev informing them that tobacco industry bumped up prices, when Ben called and said Eddie had been hospitalized. It turned out his stomachache was not caused by his reckless appetite for energy drinks twice a day (one to wake up, one to stay awake), but a simple inflammation of appendix. And as it is Wednesday and everyone but Richie has classes until five, he’s visiting alone. 

He gets lost twice, although Bev explained him more than once that he only has to enter the fourth floor and cross the hall, Eddie’s room is right in front of the entrance.

But he has a decent explanation, he’s not stupid, he just got lost, because...

“... because the elevator was too crowded and I had to go on foot and there were no fucking numbers on the floors and I’ve lost fucking count and _got_ lost...” he pushes the door into the room, still recording an audio, “...fucking twice—oh.” 

His phone buzzes as the message gets sent to Mike. Richie blinks. It’s not Eddie in the room. 

Instead of Eddie’s dark brown eyes, amused and lively, a pair of hazel, almost ochre-coloured irises stare at him blankly. They’re situated right above alarmingly purple petals of exhaustion on a rather lovely pale face, thin-nosed and white-lipped. Equally lovely dark honey curls frame it in slow-whirled motions, and it’s the last necessary attribute for this boy to look like a painting Richie saw in a gallery when they travelled to Rome. 

But instead of reminding rosy-cheeked happy feasting venetian boys, this boy looks like a starved saint. 

And when his lips move, Richie doesn’t hear a sound. 

“Uh...pardon me?” he collects himself quickly after way too many heartbeats, when something expectant appears in those eyes. 

And then a grimace of annoyance breaks the heavy immobility on the boy’s face. 

“I said, thrice. You got lost thrice. And there  _are_ numbers on stairs, you either ignored them or decided to use the fire escape.” 

“You...you couldn’t have said this many words.” 

Richie wants to hit himself. Real hard. 

“Thought you didn’t hear.” 

“I saw your lips moving.” 

“How observant of you.” 

“I’m...very observant,” he says, finally taking a decent breath. Before, he was almost choking on air. Because he had to climb the stairs, obviously. 

“Just as eloquent.” 

Richie almost grins. Almost, because this stare is still the most unwelcoming thing he’s ever seen. 

But before he can embarrass himself with mentioning his remarkable dirty talk techniques, someone calls him. 

“Babe, one minute and I’m all yours again,” he says, pushing the green button. Not even a muscle moves in the the boy’s face. Richie tries to not feel disappointed in himself. “Uh, hullo?” 

“Did you get lost or something?” Eddie asks persistently without any greeting, and his tone already called Richie stupid. 

“Eds, I’m in the middle of a courting process, I’ll call you later,” he says with a cheeky smile and hangs the phone. “So! Where were we?” 

“The exit is right behind you,” his voice is quiet but stern, and ironically enough, Richie’s soft baby heart crashes loudly in his chest, as the boy leans back into the wall. Richie notices he’s sitting on a windowsill, barefoot. There’s a book on his knees, Richie doesn’t see much, but there are pictures on each page. Bird-shaped and rather bright-coloured. “Don’t get lost.” 

The boy doesn’t break the eye contact, and there is something terrifyingly piercing in his look. It’s tensed and controlled, it’s everything Richie’s not, and he can’t help but find himself at a loss for words again. He hates it. 

“I’ll do my best,” he salutes with a skillfully faked smirk this time, and pushes the door open with his shoulder. When he blinks again, the boy’s not looking back at him any more. His reading silhouette is gone behind the plastic door, and being left alone tête-à-tête with his thoughts is like stepping under a shower, but it’s not really a shower; it’s a waterfall. 

_ How can a boy like this be so... _

“Richie, you imbecile,” Eddie’s voice is almost as distant as Richie is at the moment. When he looks up, Eddie’s next to him, and immediately his face goes from mockingly-irritated to slightly concerned. “Are you alright?” 

“Not quite,” he mumbles and looks at the door next to the one he’s just emerged from. “That’s your room, right?” 

“Yeah,” Eddie chuckles, and Richie echoes the sound, starting to calm down. “What happened?” 

“I got lost thrice. And accidentally met your neighbour,” Richie feels an unpleasant tug in his belly. 

Eddie looks at the door in front of them. They’re under a waterfall again, the heaviness of the flow is a solid weight on the back of Richie’s head. His heart can’t find a rhythm in the void of white noise. 

“And I thought you found yourself some pretty nurse.” 

Richie huffs out, and it’s nothing but a rehearsed motion. His dilated pupils are still unfocused somewhere in the distance of the corridor. 

“So the courting process didn’t go well, huh?” 

This time, he rolls his eyes. This is something he can deal with. 

“Edward, no courting process of mine goes unwell.”

“And that is why you look like you’ve been struck with a lighting?” 

Richie opens his mouth to say something, but he can’t help his cheeks heating up desperately, for his memory creates the most vivid picture of the boy’s face in his head, and yes, it’s fucking striking. The boy is a gun. 

“Oh my god,” Eddie starts smiling knowingly. “I know this look. That bad, huh?” 

“I’ve talked to him for two minutes, it’s nothing. C’mon, you can’t even stand straight,” Richie steps towards Eddie’s room. “You need to rest.” 

“What’s he like? Maybe I saw him,” he walks into the room with a slight limp, Richie follows soon after, brushing the door with his arm and then catapulting himself into the chair next to the bed. 

“What, you gonna go there and talk him into talking pity on me?” Richie gives him his most charming crooked smile. 

Eddie grimaces, climbing onto his bed, and breathes out heavily, finally relaxing into the pillows. 

“And would you want it?” he’s a little breathless. 

They stare at each other for ten long seconds, faces unreadable, then Eddie rolls his eyes fondly, his chest slowly rises up and down. Richie grins. 

“Nah, he seems rather...rambunctious. I don’t like rambunctious people,” Eddie arches his brow. “You’re an exception.” 

“Oh, thank god,” he answers, face blank.

“How many more days do you have to stay here? Ben was released after three days.” 

“Ben was released after three days because he didn’t give a fuck, and I want to stay until they remove my stitches.” 

“Which means...” 

“Which means you have about three weeks to get the guy’s number.” 

Richie feels almost attacked. 

“Stop...stealing my sentences. And I thinkif I ever try to talk to him again you’ll have to tolerate me on a twenty-four-seven basis here because he’ll break my fucking nose.” 

Eddie looks at him in the most comically scandalized way. 

“Eds,” Richie grunts first, then bursts into laughter. “Your face looks like that what-the-fuck emoji, Jesus fucking Christ.” 

“Well, good, because what the fuck? You were there for two minutes, how did you manage—oh, whatever. There’s nothing weird about some guy wanting to strangle you with his bare hands after experiencing the best of your courting abilities.” 

“Yeah, tell me about courting abilities,” Richie points out and watches, with a satisfied grin, as Eddie’s cheeks turn darker than a pomegranate. _Ignore the flow, ignore the flow, just don’t let it carry you away, crush you, drown you. He doesn’t hate you, your friends don’t hate you._ “Because it definitely wasn’t you who broke—“

“Shut up.” 

“—an arm while—“

“Shut up!” 

“—trying to court Bill Denbrough,” Richie finishes quickly and laughs almost wholeheartedly at Eddie’s absolutely miserable face. 

“Oh my God,” he mumbles, hiding it in the palm of his hand, then rubs his eyes with his thumb and index finger. 

***

Next time he goes to the hospital, it’s the second day of heavy snowing. There’s no wind, soft and huge snowflakes waltz elegantly in the air just to land carefully right on Richie’s eyelashes and get lost in his curls. There are clouds of steam escaping his lips, the streets are not yet dirty and grey but bright white, and lilac, and all the other cool shades of December. He sees his reflection in the windows of cars and vitrines, the vivid purple of his puffer jacket goes so well in contrast with acid green of his scarf. He has to buy a matching hat or ask Mike to knit it.  ~~Then he’ll finally be completely invisible.~~

Eddie calls him when he’s already in the hall. 

“Are you there yet?” 

“No, why?” he lies easily, turning back. 

“Oh thank god, can you please buy me a salted caramel latte? There’s a coffee shop behind the corner to the right, also I want a muffin, if they’re fresh?” 

“Sure you’re allowed to eat that?” Richie grins, already outside. His boots leave clean footprints on the ground, he follows his steps with his eyes, mesmerized a little. Eddie goes on and on about hospitals’s disgusting coffee machines, and somewhere in the middle of the route Richie hears the smells of warm coffee beans. He bites his lip and thinks if he wants an americano-muffin or a latte-sandwich duo. It’s Eddie who’s tooth is sweeter than Ben himself, Richie couldn’t eat a muffin with a caramel latte. A muffin and a strong filter coffee though...

“Chocolate or berry?” he asks, when Eddie is in the middle of describing each hospital meal he’s had. 

“Are you there already?” 

“Almost, yeah.” 

“You choose, I like both.” 

“Well,” Richie murmurs, opening the door of the shop. “Okay, I see blueberry muffins, chocolate muffins with pieces of white chocolate, um, classic muffins with pieces of dark chocolate...yeah, that’s all,” he informs Eddie, inspecting the vitrine. “Classic muffins look fine, but blueberries are the most erotic of all. Chocolate ones...I don’t know,” Richie leans down a little. “Seem a little dry to me.” 

Eddie stays silent for a couple of seconds. Richie almost decides that he wants a cup of filter coffee and a slice of carrot cake. 

“Take both. And a salted caramel latte.” 

Richie chuckles. 

“Okay big boy, I’ll be in ten.” 

“Thanks,” there is an annoyed huff in Eddie’s voice before he hangs up. Richie walks towards the line, hands in pockets, eyes scanning other pasties behind the glass. There are doughnuts, biscuits, croissants...oh, there’s his big stupid face with weird cheekbones and enormous glasses that can’t even properly hide his shit ton of freckles—at least his hair is not ugly. He stares at his reflection, and there is nothing written on this face. He thinks of what would he think if he met himself, being someone else. Is there anything is his features his own eyes would want to inspect. Is there anything, besides missed proportions, he would want to look at closely. Is there intelligence, is there a spirit. Or is this white of his skin dull and empty, not quite vivid, not quite dead. 

He steps forward, tearing his gaze away from the vitrine. Takes a deep breath and curves the corners of his lips. 

“Good afternoon, sir!” the barista girl in a red apron smiles back at him. “What can I get for you today?” 

“Hello, miss...Annabel,” Richie’s gaze only drops down to her badge for a quick moment. She purses her lips, hiding a huger smile coquettishly. “Two salted caramel lattes, per favore, two muffins, one blueberry and one classic, and a chicken sandwich. And would you be so kind to pack it, please?” 

“Of course, sir,” she pulls out two paper cups with seemingly darker cheeks. “Who’s ordering?” 

“Richie,” he answers, card already in his fingers. 

“Pardon?” 

“It’s Richie, Richard.” 

She nods and bites her lip, and Richie knows there are going to be little hearts on both of his cups. Or a smiley face, at least.

He presses his card to the automat and gives her one more smile before moving to the left. There are candy canes and gingerbread cookies on the waiting stand. He takes a gingerbread man, vaguely listening to the next person’s order. 

“...Medium-sized americano and two slices of carrot pie, please. Make it takeaway. Thank you.” 

Maybe he jerks his head up towards the familiar voice too quickly, because his heart misses a beat. It’s his turn to blush now. Of embarrassment. 

“Stanley,” the curly boy tells Annabel curtly, and Richie fights an urge to repeat the name. To feel it, rolling off of his tongue. He wonders if he’ll look at him, if he’ll recognize him. If he knows he’s there, looking at his delicate profile, swallowing up the curve of his lashes, the straight line of his nose, noticing the smallest cracks on his lips. 

“Stop staring at me.” 

So he  _ does _ know.  _ Fuck. _

Richie blinks, and next thing he knows, he’s trapped in hazel warmth of the boy’s eyes again.  Stanley’s , he corrects himself. He has a name now.  _Great._

“You stole my order,” he hears himself muttering, and it’s so not-him, to mutter something. He should be an enigma. He should be  _bright. _

“You ordered a latte and a sandwich.” 

“How did—“ Richie lets the question die on the tip of his tongue. He licks his lips. Stanley puts a dollar into the tip jar. “I was going to to order an americano and a carrot pie.” 

“And why didn’t you?” 

Richie stares. When Stanley looks back, he shrugs. 

“Two carrot cakes and grande americano for Stanley!” another barista announces, and Richie decides he’s gonna ignore the striking feeling of disappointment. 

Stanley moves a little closer to him and collects his order. He’s as tall as Richie is, neck wrapped in a grey scarf, his equally grey coat all buttoned up.

Nothing happens next. He leaves, no nods or goodbyes, and Richie doesn’t follow his silhouette. He looks at the other barista, chubby-cheeked and soft-haired. In a minute, she looks up at him and gives him his order. 

There are two hearts on either side of his name on one of the cups. 

***

Doing homework with Eddie, when he’s not devouring Bill’s face, is quite productive. Especially today, especially when he’s in a mood to be locked up tête-à-tête with himself. He’s noticed it’s easier for him to focus on work when he’s hurt, angry, devastated, yet only if there is something make him. Deadlines, or Eddie, for example. Eddie won’t tolerate his sad ass in front of him, staring longingly at the window and sighing time after time. And the last thing Richie wants to talk about is the roots of the constant presence of his insecurities that grow harder to ignore as they all grow up. Yeah, he’s bottling up his emotions, pushes them up his ass as deep as he can, and it’s all because he doesn’t want to talk about his condition with his friends. If you think of it like that — sure, it’s not the happiest way to lead a life. But hey, he catches up on homework, he hasn’t got much time to overthink shit, he gets tired quickly and sleeps well, and most importantly, he doesn’t bother his friends. 

So Richie finishes his English Lit assignment, and when Bev and Ben come to visit, all four of them learn that ordering McDonalds to hospitals is not permitted. Well, to this hospital, at least. 

“I’ll bring you some tomorrow,” Richie promises, winking at Eddie when they all get up to leave. 

“You’ll come tomorrow? You don’t have shit to do?” 

“You’re a good study partner, Eduardo,” Richie tells him and closes the door, Bev and Ben waiting for him in the hall. He’ll come with Bill and Georgie, Bill’s younger brother, and he knows their studying session won’t be as productive as it was today, but...he really,  really doesn’t want to be alone. 

With the corner of his eye, Richie sees that the next door is opening. 

A nurse comes out of it, pushing a cart in front of her, and, biting his lip, Richie steps forward to hold the door for her. 

“Oh, thank you so much,” she smiles at him, but there is something restless in her eyes. Her smile dies quickly, and she looks tired and concerned, wrinkles on her young face deep because of the frown she’s wearing. Richie nods and manages a quick look at the cart. There are pills, scissors and bandages; used bandages. With a little blood on them. 

“Rich?” Bev asks, putting her hand on his shoulder. 

Richie gives her his most dazzling smile. 

***

He’s twenty minutes early, and because Bill and Georgie won’t manage to come until five, he has to sit in the hall, right in front of Eddie’s room, with two enormous fucking packages from McDonald’s. He doesn’t give a shit that they smell for everyone on the floor to hear; he doesn’t give a shit that he looks like a clown. He’s annoyed a little, because he’s hungry as fuck, his phone died, and he can’t do his homework, and...god. He’s secretly the best at complaining. 

And right when he opens his textbook to examine what kind of shit he has to come up with today, of course Stanley the fucking Manley has to emerge from the elevator, serving the usual looking-like-hell-yet-hotter-than-it eleganza, wearing a sweater in colour tempest that compliments huge ugly bags under his eyes, and carrying a polite void in them. And when Richie almost looks down and begins scribbling today’s date, although he really, really doesn’t remember the last time he did that, Stanley’s eyes land directly on his. 

They stare at each other (traditionally) for a couple of long moments, but then the boy’s eyes drop down to the side where on the table there stand the goddamn McDonalds bags. 

Richie swallows nervously. 

“You, uh,” he starts awkwardly, when Stanley looks at him again. “You want some?” 

Stanley huffs out a breath and leans his head to the left a little bit, crossing his hands on his chest. He’s standing in three meters distance, but Richie feels how electric the air suddenly becomes. 

“I do,” he says, and it’s Richie’s heart that drops down now. He opens his lips, but Stanley gets ahead of him. “I’ll probably just order, you don’t have to share. Thank you.” 

And although it is elusive, almost non-existent and vague, so vague that it would be a blatant lie to call it a smile rather than a upward curve of his lip on one side, still, it is there. And Richie  loses his shit, internally. On the outside, he decides to play it cool.

“You’re not allowed to. Order here, I mean. We tried.” 

He fails miserably, of course. 

“Are you serious,” Stanley says, deadpan. He looks at something above Richie’s head and his eyebrows move towards each other even closer. “Is he serious?” 

“What, Stanley,” someone’s tired voice answers him, and as Richie turns his head to look back, the same nurse he held the door approaches. 

“Am I not allowed to order food delivery here? Really?” 

The woman sighs. Richie feels bad for her. 

“You can always go outside and take your order from the delivery guy, calm down.” 

“What if my leg is broken? What if I can’t move and crave chicken nuggets?” 

“Well in that case I’d go out and take the order for you, don’t worry.” 

“And what if my nurse is a bitch?” 

Richie snorts loudly. They both look at him and he quickly presses his fist to his lips and mouths  sorry . 

“Stan...just go into your room.” 

“I just don’t understand,” he turns towards the door, still speaking. “You let tons of strangers in here, why can’t you do the same with delivery service.” 

“Oh my god. I don’t know. Talk to the administration.” 

“To whom exactly I have to talk to?” 

Richie doesn’t hear her reply because they disappear behind the door, and he’s sitting there alone again, staring longingly at it. 

Not for long, it turns out. 

“Was it that boy you tried to court? He’s gorg, I’ll give you that.” 

Richie winces, and there are Eddie Kaspbrak, Bill Denbrough and Georgie to his left, all wearing shit-eating grins and carryingdiabolically sparkling eyes.

“Gonna remind me about this brief misfortune till the end of my life, Edster? Like I do about your own love story?” he smirks when their lips tremble. Georgie though, Georgie’s smile only grows wider. “Thought you’re higher than that,” he finishes and stands up, immediately growing two heads above Eddie. 

“Not when you suh-stare at the guy like this,” Bill chuckles and runs his fingers through his boyfriend’s hair. 

“Like what?” Richie grimaces, but his heart beats quicker. He picks up the goddamn McDonalds bags and points to the door with his chin. 

“Like he hung the stars, dude, you looked like you’re fucked up,” Eddie says honestly. 

“Yeah, did you hear the conversation? The boy is a gun, I respect a good one, s’all.” 

“Do you really think you don’t have any chances? That desperate?” 

_Yes_ , Richie wants to say. Everyone buys his black curls, almond-shaped eyes and crooked smile. Everyone laughs at his jokes and blushes when he flirts. Everyone who’s interested  acts interested. He’s not easy to ignore, not at all. And this boy is like a slap in the face. 

“Have you seen him? He’s a cockblock,” Georgie suddenly speaks up, and as Richie bursts into laughter, Bill and Eddie look at him with reverent fear in their eyes. 

“Aye bro, who doesn’t like a good—“

“Richie!” 

“He’s thirteen!” 

“Exactly, Billiam! He’s thirteen!” 

“Can we eat already? I’m starving,” Georgie complains and pulls the bags out of Richie’s fingers. 

Richie grins and shrugs. 

***

It’s not that fucking funny when he finds himself in front of Stan’s room two days later, nervous like a twelve years old asking their first crush to prom. He’s never nervous, he’s always sure he’s gonna be fine. But, you know. Everything happens for the first time. He’s getting ready for the said slap in the face. Mentally. Clenching another McDonalds bag in his fingers and staring at the door’s white plastic surface, he holds his breath for a moment. 

Then lets it out exhaustedly and turns to leave. 

And when he looks up, brushing his hair away from his eyes, a familiar figure with crossed hands and body leaning on one hip is already there. 

Richie almost suffocates. 

“You fucking wanker,” he breaths out at last, and it’s only because Stanley’s face is different this time. Standing there and watching him, he’s fucking  _grinning_ _._ Richie has never seen anyone more evil. And when he says that, the boy  chuckles . 

“What, scared?” 

“I was trying to understand whether you’resleeping or not,” Richie mimics, and it’s the shittiest lie he could come up with. “I knocked two times.” 

“No you didn’t.” 

“Yes I did.” 

“Really?” 

“Yes.” 

“No.” 

“Dude, have you seen your face?” Richie huffs out, almost immediately regretting this. 

“What’s wrong with it?” 

Stanley moves closer, and when he passes Richie, a faint smell of his perfume fills up his nostrils. Or rather his shampoo. He smells  good. 

“You told me to fuck off at least fifty times. It kinda scares the hoes away.” 

He snorts, opening the door and walking inside the room. 

Richie proceeds to stand there like an abandoned puppy he is. What a pussy. What a fucking pussy. 

“You coming in?”

Stanley doesn’t even look back. Richie, still kind of shocked, slowly follows him and closes the door. 

“What’ve you got there,” he’s asking the next minute, and Richie only understands that he’s talking about food because the room starts to smell like fries. 

“Fries. Nuggets, um, a big mac, orange juice, shrimps. I didn’t know what to choose. Oh, there’s a big tasty, too.” 

“It all must be cold already.” 

“Well it’s either hot fries or watching me out there struggling miserably in a poor attempt to not shit my pants. I know, both sounds delicious, but, you know. Choices.” 

“I was trying to make sure that you’re not really an over-confident cheesy imbecile with shitty pick-up lines and a small dick and there is a hidden fragile romantic Jesse Mccartney sad boy fan under all that trumpery.” 

Boom. Slap. Poof. Strike. Wig. 

“Does—” his voice triumphantly cracks and he has to go through another embarrassment of clearing it. “Does the sad boy option exclude a small dick?” 

Stanley looks into his eyes, and his face tells him to fuck off for the fifty first time. He puts his hand up and connects his index finger and his thumb. 

“I’m this close to kick you out.” 

“And if I quote Jesse Mccartney?” 

He crosses his legs and leans back into the pillows of the couch. 

“Don’t use jokes as a defense mechanism, it shows and is pathetic. I let you in so we can be sad together. People watch when you think they don’t. And I’ll take the big tasty.” 

***

The next time they meet is when Richie’s smoking before entering the hospital and Stanley emerges from it, looking prettier than ever. 

Winter...suits him. His cheeks are still unhealthily pale, but this paleness is most tenderly kissed with blush on tops of his cheekbones. The pointy tip of his nose is pink too, and this particular colour of reddish-pink complements the plum-purple of those unmoving circles under his eyes. His lips are dusty pink, bitten and chapped, and his curls don’t shine but shimmer under the sharp white rays of sun, just like the ivory of his skin on one side of his face, and on the other it’s completely drowned in deep lavender shadows. His eyes are heavenly pretty, prettier than the colour of lemon that has been drowned in black tea for too long, sweeter than dark honey they sell in organic shops, cooler than sandy beaches after dark, and Richie suddenly has an unfamiliar desire to count every single speck of black, grey, green or blue in them. He wonders which colour would be right. And when he speaks, almost transparent clouds of steam escape his lips that is oddly enough also one of the most breathtaking sights Richie’s ever seen. 

“Wanna go grab a coffee?” 

Sounds like a date, Richie wants to say with a disgusting grin, but he knows Stanley wouldn’t appreciate it much, especially now that they established that he’s never in a mood to tolerate any bullshit. 

“I’m like one hundred percent sure there are things of extremely high importance going on in your head, but I’m cold, and if you don’t want to come—“ 

“No-no, I was composing my order, let’s go,” Richie says quickly, feeling his cheeks heating up. 

“Composing your order?” 

“I never know what I want when I’m in there, so it’s better to decide in advance.” 

Although Richie doesn’t stop embarrassing himself, Stanley’s face stays impassive. He’ll has to deal with it, it’s just what the boy’s like. And not take it personally. Maybe he pulled a muscle when he was little and now he can’t laugh, who knows. 

Richie internally slaps himself. 

“Do you want my scarf?” 

Stanley turns his head to look at him, and a ray of sun licks both of his eyes, immediately making them almost yellow. They shine like glass, just as transparent, and Richie can’t help but smile almost...adoringly. 

“Is there something on my face?” he frowns a little, and Richie notices how dark his eyebrows are in contrast with his hair. 

“No, but your eyes are yellow. It’s cool.” 

And by cool he means irrationally, irresistibly beautiful, but he’s going to ignore this, for now. Just like the fact that he hardly ever calls anything beautiful. This word always felt...too special to throw it out at everything. Pretty, cute, gorgeous, breathtaking — they’re more emotional, it’s true. But a simple  _ beautiful_ ...is too much of a responsibility. 

It’s the first time Stanley looks taken aback though. His beautiful eyes widen a little bit, he blinks twice, other features still static, and Richie doesn’t know whether it’s an alarm or surprise.  _ Has no one ever told you your eyes are beautiful, _ he wants to ask, but he knows the ice he’s standing on is too thin to test it. He just waits patiently, because Richie Tozier is secretly the most patient person on the planet, and hopes for the best.

“I guess they are,” Stanley says then and looks at Richie more insistently. “Yours are tea-coloured.” 

“Tea-coloured?” 

“Under the sun. Mine are yellow because my brown is dry, yours is dark and rich. Reddish, in retrospective. Why did you offer me your scarf?” 

“You said you were cold. And there are different colours of tea.” 

“Earl Grey. We’re almost there,” Richie didn’t notice they are. “Also it's hideous.” 

This now totally makes Richie burst into laughter. 

“I know, right?” he says, still chuckling. “You’d look absolutely fucking ugly in it.” 

Stanley presses his lips together and looks at him with a sneer. Another absolutely fascinating thing about his eyes is, they’re louder than his face. Richie has never met anyone like this. Maybe he’s romanticizing, maybe he’s too much, but every little thing about Stanley leaves him amazed. And he doesn’t know how to react. He’s probably really, really fucked. 

“Filter coffee and a chocolate cake?” 

“Huh?” 

“Filter coffee and a chocolate cake? You didn’t have time to compose your order, but I know what I’m having,” Stanley holds the door for him, and it’s not winter anymore, it’s the dim lighting of the coffee shop with people and smells and voices, and Stanley...Stanley is still beautiful. 

“Sounds like something I’d order, yes,” Richie nods and even after a short consideration, it is really something he’d like. The line is long, and absent-mindly, Richie again falls into inspecting his own reflection in the vitrine. And right when he’s ready to start a conversation about coffee, Stanley starts speaking. 

“Our reflections are ridiculous.” 

Richie’s reflection turns a little to look at his. They do look amusing, both lanky, curly, yet completely different. Stanley in dark clothes and Richie in his vivid purples and greens. Even his jeans are faded blue, while Stanley’s trousers are black. 

“Only reflections?” Richie hears himself saying, still looking down. 

“Yes, only reflections. I don’t see myself without them, I only see you. You’re not ridiculous.”

It’s the moment Richie realizes he could be falling. 

***  
  


To his enormous fucking surprise, Stanley asks him if he’s gonna visit “his friend” tomorrow. No, Richie has to say with a tremor in his throat, because he has his first exam that day, but he’ll come the day after. Stanley says they’re gonna go but coffee first, “coffee and something decent to eat”, and it’s not an invitation, neither it is a question It’s a “we will”. And Richie doesn’t even say anything, he only goes a little bit weak in the knees, because he’s secretly an absolute bloody sucker for...bossiness. Good to know it’s not a secret to anyone he’s a kinky fucking hoe as well. 

“I want chicken nuggets,” Stanley says when they’re parting ways the next time, and a “See you tomorrow” follows soon after, almost making Richie lose his shit right there. 

They never exchange numbers, they never even say “hi” to each other. They just meet, eat, Richie falls more and more, and Stanley finally starts to prove him wrong: he _can_ laugh. 

If you ask Richie what they usually talk about, he’ll freak out, probably. He doesn’t know. Really. Stanley loves commenting on things he notices and not like he shows any signs of liking what Richie rants about (absolute bullshit, mostly), but he listens anyway. He’s a good listener. He’s also a good company for silent walks under snowy winds or crystal clear skies. Richie has never been even close to pulling a brain muscle in attempts to start a conversation with Stanley, not even once. Everything between them feels so...natural.

An unspoken harmony of their presence around each other. 

***

“I’m going home tomorrow,” Eddie says a couple of days later, finishing his muffin. Richie chokes on his coffee. 

“Already?” 

“Yeah. They said I’m completely fine.” 

“Thank god,” Richie says, exhaling dramatically. “Edster is back in the game!” 

“Don’t call me that.” 

“Okay.” 

Eddie looks at Richie’s Cheshire smile like he’s a man doomed to death. 

“Ouch!” 

“Yeah, ouch.” Richie chuckles, but lets go the next moment, for a lump in his throat suddenly feels like it’s Jupiter-sized. “Say, how’ve—Rich?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Are you alright?” 

“Yes, why?” 

“You look like you’re hurting.” 

“Why, I’m good, Eds, don’t—“ 

“Why do you always avoid talking to me like a decent fucking person? Like a friend?”

“What?” 

Richie starts to panic. Eddie sighs. 

“Fine, fuck off then. Act like you’re fine. I don’t care. It’s your problem.” 

Another important thing Richie understands then is that he can hurt his friends without saying anything. They still bother, they still wonder. They still see, even if they don’t ask. 

It’s the look on Eddie’s face that breaks Richie’s heart, the fact that  he did that. Even though he did everything to avoid this. He doesn’t know when fooling around became a defense mechanism not only for him but towards everyone he cares about too, and instead of defending, it only cages them all up and poisons the living hell out of everyone. 

It happens in a matter of seconds, really. And Richie doesn’t know what to do. 

“I know it’s hard for you to talk about your feelings,” Eddie murmurs, and Richie tenses, almost ready to run out of the room, “but I’m not asking you to. You can leave it all, but stop forcing yourself to be all fun and happy, Rich, if you’re not feeling it, you don’t have to pretend.” 

The silence after his words is not heavy, for Richie’s surprise. 

It’s inviting. 

Richie watches Eddie inspecting his hands with a nervous bite on his lip. He never wanted that, he’d never thought of wanting that. He feels ropes of hopelessness, tugging around his neck. He’s never planned to see Eddie like that because of him. Nothing ever goes as planned, it doesn’t matter how much you want it to. How good you think your schemes are. 

“Sometimes I feel like if I’m not gonna be happy all the time y’all wouldn’t want to tolerate me.” 

To his own surprise, he’s really saying this out loud. And while tasting this simple truth on his tongue, he thinks of Stanley. Of course it’s Stanley and his constant eye-rolls and snorts, his dead-stare and headshakes that are available to him on one single condition: be real. He cracked the code, because _people see when you don’t think they’re watching_ _._ Even if they’re too polite to tell you so. And it’s either him, wearing this cross of being the last honest-to-God fool and clown, or be real. They’re your friends, for fuck’s sake. They know you too damn well, they don’t hate you. Stop hiding, you only hurt them more. 

Eddie Kaspbrak throws a book right into his face. 

***

He knocks on Stanley’s door twice. He even opens it, but no one’s there. And now it  is a matter of huge importance: he’s not even sure the boy knows this name and he’s gonna be kicked out of this place any moment, because the visiting hours have been over for ten minutes now, and yet, he has to say something. At least introduce himself, because he’s quite sure Stanley doesn’t know his name. It hasn’t occurred to him to do that while they were hanging out, thank you very much, and now Richie has a feeling that he has to ask whether Stanley would like him to visit...him. Not Eddie, not like that. He needs to know if he’ll be waited for. Because he’s too scared he won’t. 

_ Fuck _ _._ Probably seeing a doctor somewhere out there. Richie has never even asked him why he’s here. What a brilliant courting strategy, no name, no information, only chicken nuggets and embarrassing flirting techniques. 

“Sir,” Richie’s heated thoughts in front of Stanley’s door are interrupted by a nurse.  _Fuck_ _._ “The visiting hours are over, I’ll need you to come back tomorrow, unfortunately.” 

“Yeah, yeah, sure, sorry, I’m leaving already,” he nods and turns towards the elevators. 

And then, of course, he sees Stanley at the end of the corridor. 

He knows something’s wrong because of the look on his face the minute he, too, realizes Richie’s there. He stops walking. He tenses up. 

His eyes are a wave of horror Richie doesn’t understand until he looks down. 

For the first time, he sees Stanley wearing a tee-shirt. His arms are long, thin and bony, like the rest of his body, but it’s not the point. Both of his wrists are wrapped in bandage, and when Richie looks back to his face, he understands. 

“No,” Richie hears himself whispering until it’s too late, but it is. The second he tries to make a step forward, Stanley steps back. Once again. He shakes his head and purses his lips, trying to hide his arms behind his back, but next moment, his slim figure is gone. 

“Sir.” 

“Miss,” Richie pleads, but he knows it’s not gonna work. 

“You’ll come back tomorrow, don’t worry,” she says reassuringly, and Richie wants to scream. To scream that it’s a mistake, that he’s not disgusted, that he’s not scared, that he still wants nothing but fail miserably in attempts to make Stanley smile and melt like butter on toast when he accidentally manages to, but he can’t. It’s only gonna be worse. He’s probably number one in the list of people he doesn’t want to see right now. What a stupid, stupid fucking mistake. 

“Yeah,” he says, still looking at the wall the boy disappeared behind. “Have a good evening.”

Richie Tozier is falling and he doesn’t really know what to do. 

***

They don’t let him in the next day. Of course they don’t, he doesn’t even know Stanley’s last name, and Eddie is already at home. They don’t let in a shit ton of strangers, not like that. That’s what he learns from a bitchy middle-aged woman at the desk. 

Richie tries to wait at the coffee shop, but he already knows he’s not gonna come. He doesn’t even want to think how hurt Stanley is right now, and although he does his best to ignore the crippling feeling of loathe towards himself, he fails miserably. 

He’s used to being a failure, but almost for the first time in his life, he wants to make it work. And this is not about love, this is about forgiveness. And an explanation. 

The boy must be hating himself as much as Richie does. 

And that’s what Richie’s life is. He hurts people by mistake, he never means it. He’s aggressive and loud, but he’s the most peaceful boy you know. He wants nothing but comfort for people he cares for, he wants to wrap them up in his affection, he wants nothing but to see them safe. 

And although it’s a long process for a lot of people to get into his heart, that boy is something different. If Richie’s an enigma, Stanley’s an icy hand that cools you down when you have a fever. He’s winter breath, he’s the smell of snow in the morning. He’s clouds above forests in the middle of February. He’s your crystal clear reflection in unmoving waters of a lake. He’s a lost shadow, knowing it’s lost, yet moving forward. 

He buys flowers. A bouquet of ranunculuses, snow-white, with a touch of blushing morning sun. He spends the whole evening he’s supposed to study for his last exam, composing a letter, a note, a something. He doesn’t know what to do, everything sounds wrong. Everything is stupid and ridiculous, and Richie has a breakdown that night, too. He almost calls Eddie, but it would be too much to ask for. Comfort for someone who’s been restless for his whole life. Later. He promises himself, he’ll tell him later, he swears. And it’s a beginning. 

Stanley’s eyes in his head blink approvingly. 

He craves seeing the boy so much he even thinks of getting sick on purpose, but god only knows which hospital they will put him in. 

_ Pathetic, Tozier. _

In the morning, he goes there himself and smokes four cigarettes before entering doors that are too familiar. There’s no note attached to the simple transparent wrapping paper, and a girl behind the desk smiles when she sees young tender buds of white, not completely open yet. 

“Good morning,” Richie says weakly and forces down a smile. “I would like to leave these flowers for Stanley from the room number eight on the fourth floor.” 

“Sure, can I get his last name?” her voice is incredibly radiant in compare with how swampy Richie feels in his yesterday’s clothes and after a sleepless night. He swallows down an other breakdown. 

“I don’t know his last name, sorry.” 

Her cheeks darken a little, and Richie wants to laugh at her face. Yeah, romantic as fuck. If only she knew. 

“Stanley from the room number...ah, okay, found him. I’ll make sure he gets them. What’s your name, again?” 

“Richard. Richard Tozier.” 

“These are from you, right? Great, from Richard Tozier, then. Are you sure you can’t take them up yourself?” 

Richie, who’s almost ready to get the fuck out of here, freezes. 

“Myself?” 

“Yeah, it’s Saturday. The visiting hours start at ten.” 

Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuck. 

“Yes, sure, I’d love that.” 

“Great! I’ll need your ID for a temporary pass. I think I’ll be jealous of Stanley from room number eight for the rest of my life,” she sighs dreamily, and Richie’s heart breaks a little. 

***

_ Knock. Hold your breath for what feels like an eternity.  _

“Come in.” 

_ Let go. _

He takes another deep one and pushes the door open. 

Stanley looks up from the book he’s been reading on the windowsill. Barefoot. Richie closes the door. Its click is uncharacteristically loud. He licks his lips, not being able to look away from Stanley. The blinding sun hits him right in the eyes. He doesn’t care. 

“I don’t care,” he says, feeling his heart beating rapidly in his chest, when Stanley opens his mouth to say something. He looks worse than the last time they saw each other. He looks...thinner, if it’s possible. His lips are yellow and his collarbones, peaking out from his navy-blue sweater, are so sharp it feels like they’re gonna break his unhealthily grey skin any minute. The veins on his neck are darker than ever, and his cheekbones look like they’re made of stone. 

He’s still the most beautiful boy Richie’s ever seen. 

“I don’t care that you did that. I mean, one day I’d love to know why, if you decide to tell me, but I don’t...I’m not...” he shakes his head with striking honesty in his voice. “It’s not something that would change the way I feel about you. I’m sorry you got this wrong, Stanley, but I don’t think I’m gonna back off.” 

“I don’t want your pity.” 

His words are not a bullet this time. They’re tender, they’re a question, they’re a reason. Just like his eyes, dark under his blond curls, drowning in unfamiliar glimmer of tempest, vulnerable and grieving storm. 

Richie looks at this boy, knowing damn well he can’t fuck up this time. He doesn’t know what he’s been through, what made him build walls so tall and thick he can’t escape them, too, but they’re both prisoners, prisoners of not so different sort, trapped anywhere but inside their head. He doesn’t, he can’t possibly know if it’s each other they need, but it’s for the first time in his life when Richie feels this fucking terrified and it doesn’t scare him away. Quite the opposite, actually: this fear is something that pushes him forward. He takes a step. 

“Do you _really_ think it’s pity?” he asks, already knowing the answer. He was invited to be sad together, and being sad together never means pity. It means anything but pity. 

It means to give him that big tasty, although it was the only thing Richie bought for himself. It means to pick ranunculuses of all flowers, because they declare attraction, a conquered heart, a message so simple and honest there’s nothing else to add. It means not going on smoke-breaks, because disappearing for a few minutes when you’re with Eddie is one thing, and with Stanley it’s completely different. It means desperately wanting to know what happened to him, what made him do what he did and moreover, to be sure it won’t happen again; but not asking, because he’s not ready yet. He will be, but not yet. It also means not asking why no one comes to visit him and instead wondering why all the books he has on his bedside table are either about birds or Renaissance treatises. It means care, not pity. Let’s take care about each other. 

“No.” 

Richie knows he’s tired, he knows he doesn’t want to feel that anymore. He knows it’s time to let someone in. Just like Richie did.

Just like he was asked to do. 

“Can I stay?” 

Stanley nods. 

Richie puts the flowers on his bed. Moves towards the window, unsurely. To his surprise, Stanley pulls him closer by his scarf, and when he’s finally placed in between his slim thighs, the boy begins to unwrap it carefully. They’re so close to each other that Stanley’s breath burns on Richie’s cheek and his curls tickle the tip of his nose. Transparent salty smell of his skin goes brilliantly well with his flowery shampoo. The sleeves of his sweater slip down, revealing white bandages. Richie’s fingers cover his sharp knuckles, their eyes finally find each other. _Golden_. Constellations of freckles in Stanley’s eyes are _golden_ in contrast with warm darkness of his irises, that’s why they look lighter. Everything suddenly breaks into technicolour. He blinks and Richie mirrors the motion. Stanley’s breath is on his lips now. The waterfall is gone. His heart finds its rhythm, white noise is nothing but a background. 

"I know this look," Stanley breaths out, his eyes fill up with an uncertain anticipation. "You're going to kiss me." 

When their lips collide, they’re both smiling. 

**Author's Note:**

> or: how to make a sad frigid bitch fall in love with you in three weeks (according to richie tozier)


End file.
